He tightened the cord, constricting the flesh of her neck, and leaned close to her. “This is an ugly world full of disappointment and heartache,” he whispered. “I’m doing you a favor.”
But then, over the purr of the van’s engine and the faint eerie moan of protest coming from Holly’s throat, Billy thought he heard something else. He allowed the cord to slacken and listened hard. Suddenly he jumped up and bolted for the van, where he cut off the engine and the lights.
Puzzled, Bobby was right behind him. “What’s wrong?” Then he heard it too.
“Get down,” Bobby hissed.
The two men scattered, finding cover that allowed them to see the dirt road. Within seconds, a pickup pulling a boat trailer bounced into view. It stopped at the top of the approach to the river and flicked its headlights three times, then sat with its engine running and its lights shining steadily.
ACROSS THE RIVER, on the Arkansas side, Big Eddie Burkhalter fired up the outboard and headed for home, aiming the bow of the boat for the twin beacons formed by the headlights of his brother’s pickup. In the bow, Little Eddie, Big Eddie’s twenty-year-old son, swept the water ahead and upstream with a big flashlight, watching for floating logs. They’d had a good trip and were bringing back ten wood ducks each, far over the legal limit. Ignorant of gun safety, both had their pump Remington 12-gauges propped on the middle seat fully loaded. Ernie, their golden retriever, sat on the middle seat enjoying the feel of the wind on his face.
EVEN IF BILLY couldn’t have heard the sound of the approaching boat, it would have been obvious that the truck had come to pick up someone on the river, meaning there would soon be even more activity here.
The van was deep into the scrub and the night was moonless, so it was distinctly possible that it would never be noticed. He decided to just wait the situation out.
HOLLY TOO, HEARD the boat, and hope returned.
WHEN BIG EDDIE’S boat was forty yards out, his brother, Ben, left the pickup and walked down to the water. “How’d you do?”
“Got a bunch,” Little Eddie shouted back.
The bow of the boat struck land, and Ben pulled it a few feet on shore so they could unload. The dog jumped out, shook himself, and tested the air for interesting smells. There was a slight breeze coming from upriver, which meant that he picked up nothing from the direction of the van.
THE USUAL CLATTER and conversation of men returning from the hunt ensued. From the tone and content of the talk and their attention to the work as they ferried items from the boat to the pickup, it was obvious to Billy that they had no idea anyone else was around.
HOLLY, TOO, COULD tell that the hunters hadn’t seen the van. She’d been trying to get the tape off her mouth so she could remove the washcloth Bobby had used to gag her, but with her wrists still bound, she’d only been able to roll the upper margin of the tape down a little. She tried now to scream, but the gag muffled what little sound she could muster. With her ankles also still bound, and still suffering muscle weakness from the stun gun, there was no way she could stand. All she could manage was to squirm on the ground, trying to find something she could kick to make a little noise.
She was lying a few feet from the edge of the hill that dropped to the river. In the spring, the spot where the van was parked was regularly under several inches of water. When it receded, it always left a lot of debris behind. As Holly squirmed and tested her surroundings with her feet, she found a clump of dry twigs caught in the low branches of some scrubby bushes. With her third kick at them, she caught a good sized one just right and it broke with a sharp CRACK.
AT THE PICKUP, the dog’s head swiveled in Holly’s direction and he began to bark. Coming up the hill with a bag of ducks in one hand and his shotgun in the other, Big Eddie walked to the dog and looked into the darkness. “What is it boy?”
SENSING THAT THIS could be big trouble, Billy drew his automatic from his shoulder holster. Behind him, Bobby did the same, only he started to sweat.
REALIZING SHE’D ATTRACTED some attention, Holly kicked again at the debris, but couldn’t generate a significant sound. Casting around to find something else to kick, she rolled to the edge of the hill, then tumbled off it, making the noise she sought as she crashed into another tangle of dry twigs.
“WHAT’S GOING ON?” Little Eddie said, bringing the rest of the ducks and the second shotgun up from the boat.
“There’s something out there.”
Little Eddie looked hard into the darkness. “Is that a car?”
Big Eddie dropped his ducks. “Get the flashlight.”
AT THAT MOMENT, Billy considered opening fire, but the two men were thirty yards away, too far for accuracy with a pistol even in good light. But it was a perfect distance for a shotgun. Could he bluff his way out of this? Not likely, especially if the dog picked up the girl’s scent and led them to her.
WHILE LITTLE EDDIE went for the flashlight, which he’d stowed in the pickup, Bobby Fowler panicked. He could see the next few minutes clearly in his mind. Billy was going to make a stand. There was going to be a gunfight, pistols against shotguns: a piss-poor matchup. He looked behind him. He could run for it, hide in the brush. Or . . .
Not fully realizing the consequences of his decision, Bobby bolted for the van, jumped into the driver’s seat, and twisted the key in the ignition. Without bothering to turn on the lights, he dropped it into reverse and sped toward Big Eddie, who was outlined in the pickup’s headlights. If Eddie had remained where he was, Bobby would have hit him. But at the last moment Eddie retreated, allowing Bobby to make an unobstructed tight turn that got the van pointed toward the highway. Punching the gas hard, Bobby fled.
IGNORING FOR THE moment the treachery in Bobby’s act, Billy believed that it might have defused the situation. If the hunters thought everyone associated with the van was in it when it departed, they might just go on about their business and leave without investigating.
But then he heard Ben say, “What the hell was that about? He almost hit you.”
“They must have been up to something bogus,” Little Eddie said.
“Somebody laying a little pipe maybe,” Ben said.
“Then what was that noise I heard?” Big Eddie said. “Let’s take a look.”
The three men and the dog started toward Billy. But only two of the men had shotguns. Fight or run? He could stay hidden and hope they passed, and then kill them from behind. But the dog would probably give him away before he could gain the advantage.
LYING A FEW FEET below the crest of the hill, Holly had heard the van leave, but she didn’t know if both her abductors had been in it. If their leader was still around and she made any noise, he might find her before the other men. So she decided, for now, to stay quiet.
BILLY, TOO, HAD made his decision. He holstered his automatic and began to crawl deeper into the scrub.
When the hunters reached the spot where Billy had been hiding, the dog began to bark. Little Eddie played the flashlight in that direction.
Fifteen feet off the track, Billy slipped his gun out and got ready. If the dog came after him, somebody was going to die.
HEARING THE DOG and the men so close, Holly decided it was safe to reveal her location, and she began kicking at the bushes around her and making what sounds she could in her throat.
The dog turned and ran to the edge of the hill. The men followed.
“What the hell’s that?” Little Eddie said, finding Holly with his flashlight.
“It’s a woman, you dope,” Ben said.
BILLY AGAIN WEIGHED his options. Now that the hunters were focused on Holly, he might be able to take them. But once more, the advantage the shotguns gave them was cause for concern. If one of them just got off one round, even poorly aimed, Billy could lose an arm. His heart began to pound in his chest as he considered making this his la
st stand. He’d often dreamed of death. The details were never clear, but there was always smoke and explosions, so he knew his would be a violent end. Why not go for it, try to take them and see what happens? What he’d told Holly was true: this was an ugly world full of disappointment. Look at what Bobby had done to him. Of all people.
Thinking of how Bobby had betrayed him, he began to see things differently. If he charged those hunters and was killed, Bobby would never have to pay for what he’d done. And the woman . . . He’d be leaving that job unfinished as well. Finding these loose ends too untidy to accept, he once again holstered his gun and crawled deeper into the brush.
31
NONE OF THE three men who had rescued Holly could say how many people were in the van when it left the river, so the police brought in a helicopter and extra men to search the area. They were still looking when Holly was taken to the precinct house to tell her story one more time.
In all her exchanges with the police, she gave as full and complete an account as she could in her response to their questions, until they asked if she knew the men who’d abducted her. She said they were strangers. While this was literally true, it was the obvious time to tell them about everything that had led up to her abduction. But she’d kept all that to herself—mostly because she felt it would be too complicated and nebulous for them to grasp, or care about, especially since the rotten heart of it was in Wisconsin.
With all she’d been through, she’d lost her handbag. Miraculously, the cops found her keys on the ground where they’d fallen out of her jacket pocket when she was squirming around trying to find something noisy to kick. A little after one a. m., two detectives drove her to her car, which was sitting where she’d left it in the Rite Aid parking lot. There, the detectives meticulously gathered up the scattered nitroglycerin pills that hadn’t been crushed and put them into an evidence bag. Then they asked her one more time if she could give them any part of the van’s license number. After she explained yet again that she never saw the license plate, they released her, promising that they’d see her safely home.
Despite having a security guard at the gate and another in the lobby of her building, as well as a dead-bolt on her apartment door, Holly let the detectives come with her and check out her apartment to be sure no one was hiding there.
She’d lost one credit card along with her purse. After they’d looked around, the detectives asked her if she knew the number to call to report it stolen. When she said she did, they asked her to make the report right then so they could give the bank a number to call if any information came in about someone using the card.
She’d been holding up marvelously all evening, but the moment she shut the door behind the detectives the adrenaline that had been powering her ran out, leaving her depleted of all emotion and feeling as though she couldn’t move another step. Even so, she managed to drag herself to the bedroom and fall across her bed, where sleep quickly took her.
BILLY LYNCH WADED into the cold Mississippi. Behind him, he could hear the rasp of patrol car radios and the whup, whup of the police helicopter as it made ever-widening circles over the scrub, looking for him with a big searchlight. He’d come to the river because there was no other escape available.
But what now? In only to his calves, he could already feel the treacherous current trying to pull his feet out from under him. And he was a poor swimmer.
It was so dark he could see nothing around him, but coming upstream was a lighted barge that looked as if it would pass only about fifty yards from shore. If he could reach that, he could hitch a ride and say “so long suckers” to all those cops.
He waded in a little deeper to test the current and was almost swept downstream. Retreating toward shore, he knew that reaching the barge was out of the question. But that current . . . if he could just ride it somehow.
Yeah, but with what? He could never stay afloat without help.
Behind him, the helicopter made a wider swing that brought its searchlight within twenty yards of the riverbank. With the next pass, they’d likely see him even if they weren’t expecting him to be in the river.
Think, Billy.
Wait a minute. He’d once heard of a woman from a capsized sailboat staying afloat by tying the legs of her slacks together and trapping air in them. What about that?
But she was in the ocean. Would it work in fresh water? And would his pants actually hold air? Though he did not believe his life would end by drowning, the thought of trusting such a flaky idea held little appeal.
He looked over his shoulder and saw that the helicopter was starting its next pass.
By now, the barge was directly across from him and its lights dimly illuminated his surroundings. The sound of the helicopter grew closer.
Heart in his throat, he searched along the shore upstream for an answer, but there was only thin scrub, lined at the water’s edge by a narrow mat of driftwood twigs and a couple of beer bottles. He turned and looked downstream. A few feet away, where the ground abruptly rose much steeper than where he stood, the river had undercut the bank, gouging out a deep recess. With the helicopter almost upon him, he sloshed toward the undercut.
The water quickly deepened again to mid-calf and then to his knees. Feeling twin pulses beating behind his eyes, he pushed on, fighting the currents that tried to spin him around and drag him deeper into the river.
He reached the recess and ducked inside just as the world exploded in light from the helicopter.
Had they seen him?
Back pressed against cold dirt, he got out his gun and waited.
Seconds passed with no new cop sounds . . . then minutes. He could still hear the helicopter, but now sounding far off. Was that because he was in a cave, or because it was going away? Gun ready, feet braced against the current swirling around his legs, he waited in the dark to see what would happen.
Maybe they’d sent for a police boat, and any second it’d pull up and rake the recess with a searchlight. What chance would he have then?
So he waited . . . and waited, unable to see an inch in front of him, the cold from the river seeping through his body until he began to shake. It had been quite a while since he’d heard the helicopter. Maybe they were gone. Or just waiting for him to think so.
Suddenly, the current changed.
No . . . something was pressing against his legs, something muscular.
What the hell . . . ?
He kicked out and his foot hit a heavy smooth object that sluggishly yielded to the pressure and moved away. With only one leg supporting him, he was pushed sideways by the current and he danced downstream for several feet until he got his balance.
It was too dark to read his watch, so there was no way to judge the passing of time. But two more barges passed without any sign of a cop boat.
God it was cold.
Long ago, Billy had discovered that the secret to tolerating discomfort or pain was to mentally put himself in a different place. He went now to his favorite refuge; his mother’s arms, his mouth on her full breast. Many believe it isn’t possible to have memories of events that take place when people are so young. But Billy remembered. There, enveloped in her love, the smell of her powdered skin filling his nostrils and her milk giving him strength and comfort, the cold left him and time passed.
When he returned to the river, it was still dark. And another barge was coming upstream.
How long had he been here? Were the cops still waiting?
As the barge drew closer, its lights permitted a limited look at the river, where a few yards upstream he saw a dim shape in the water: a big plank of driftwood, barely ten yards from shore.
Seizing the opportunity and keeping his gun high in the air so it wouldn’t get wet, Billy waded deeper into the river, which quickly rose to his thighs, then to his waist, raising gooseflesh on his arms and neck.
; Fighting to stay on his feet, Billy could see the driftwood passing by just out of reach. He struggled forward one more step and threw himself at the plank. But he reached it with only the fingertips of his left hand. Having badly missed his target, Billy disappeared beneath the black water.
He fought to the surface two seconds later, coughing and disoriented, inhaled river water draining from his nostrils, his gun lost on the river bottom. Something tapped his head and slid by, raking his skin.
The driftwood plank.
His lunge and miss had spun it around so it was now on the shore side of him. He reached up with his right hand and cradled it in his arm. Holding on as tightly as he’d ever held his mother, Billy was carried downstream.
WHEN THE THIN rays of the sun filtered through the filmy curtains of Holly’s bedroom the next morning, she woke having had no resources even to dream. During the night, her muscles and joints had gone on strike, so it took some coaxing to get them working. On stiff legs she limped to the bathroom, where a hideous apparition inhabited her mirror.
Her eyes were bloodshot and had dark circles under them, and her face was crisscrossed with inflamed scratches. Luckily, it was Saturday and she didn’t have to see any patients. Still too tired to be frightened, she stripped off her clothes and took a long, hot shower.
Feeling better, she put on fresh clothes and made herself a cup of hot chocolate. As she sat at the kitchen table, the events of the previous night skittered around in her head, moving too quickly to be examined. But then a nasty little thought rambled onstage and was slow to leave. At the precinct house, the cops had asked her if there was someone they could call for her, but she couldn’t think of anyone, at least not in Memphis. She’d gone through hell and had no one to call when it was over, no one to hold her and stroke her hair and tell her everything was all right. And even now, when she needed moral support, she was sitting all alone in her kitchen.
The Lethal Helix Page 26
